Après moi
by jeanie2914
Summary: Nathan Clay has a life, a more-legitimate-than-not occupation, and a friend-with-benefits in Paris. His life is safe and purposefully empty of emotional ties; just the way he designed it. It cost him dearly to create a new life for himself, but when someone from his previous one shows up and needs his help, will he be willing to risk everything to be Neal Caffrey again? Post-series
1. Chapter 1

_I am a hurt/comfort fan. Its what I like to read and what I like to write. My Neal is more open; my Peter is kinder. So if that's not your thing, then my stories (generally) may not be for you._ _With that said,_ **_this story_** _ **is a departure from my usual.** It is my_ _ **Reward to Neal Caffrey**_ _for tormenting, torturing and otherwise abusing him during my last few stories. Neal will not be physically injured in this story (there will still be emotion and angst), but he will get to be the hero. It was fun to write and I hope you enjoy reading it, even if it is a bit of a switch from my normal style._

 _I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility._

 **Chapter One**

Even though she had known for a little over eight months it didn't lessen the emotional response when Elizabeth saw Neal walking jauntily down the Parisian sidewalk towards were she was lying in wait, a flower in his pocket and a smile on his face, very much alive.

When Peter had finally admitted the truth, he had made her promise to keep it a secret; had made her promise that she would let it go and let them all live the lives they had began. Neal had started over as Nathan Clay in Paris; he and Elizabeth had started over with a family. She balked at that at first but knew in her heart it was safer for Neal Caffrey to be dead, not only for him but for them as well. She only occasionally wanted to reach out to him-to hear his voice or to ask about some recent Art Exhibit she knew had opened in Europe. But all she had to do was to look at her own Neal, remember all the danger that Neal Caffrey had brought into their lives, to stifle that impulse.

It was harder for Peter. As much as Neal had been a fixture in her life, he had become such a part of Peter's that losing him had been like losing a piece of himself. It had broken her husband's heart in a way that she had never seen. She hurt so for Peter that it took her mind off of thinking about how Neal must have felt, knowing that he would die before ever gaining his freedom. That had haunted Peter terribly, and often she would find him sitting alone in the spare room, having too much to drink and holding the anklet. Neal's suffering was over, she told herself, and had been for months. Peter's however continued day after day.

They had Neal and Elizabeth knew Peter loved his son and was happy to be a father, but there was a sadness that had seeped into his soul that no amount of baby coos and milestones could wipe away. Watching him suffer had been almost as bad as her own grief at losing the bright and charming con man who had become such a part of their lives.

But then something changed; when she looked back she realized it was the last time that they had seen Mozzie. He had dropped by unexpectedly and Peter had found a bottle of wine that had mysteriously appeared on their doorstep. It was that evening that a clue had been left. Peter had pieced together the truth; Neal was not dead but had pulled off the greatest con of his life. It was soon after Mozzie's visit that she saw a marked change in Peter. He was different. The sadness suddenly faded from his demeanor and sometimes a smile would appear on his face with no apparent reason. He held himself straighter, walked with more energy and had a gleam in his brown eyes that Elizabeth had long grown used to living without. Had it been any other man she would have suspected he was having an affair. There were slip ups but not with unexplained phone calls (he had plenty of that with his job) or mysterious notes or the lingering of perfume on his shirt. It was his attitude about his former CI and friend. He wasn't heartbroken about his death anymore. It was almost as if a switch had been flipped; his grieving was over. It made no sense at all.

Finally Elizabeth confronted him and he told her that Neal was alive. The smile never left his face in a mix of happiness that his friend was alive and the pride he always had when Neal did something brilliant. He related the details of Neal's plan so quickly that later, she had to ask him to tell her again, slower, so she could understand him. He confided that keeping the news to himself had been the hardest thing he had ever done. But then he had made her promise her silence, and promise to let Neal live his life as Nathan Clay, and she had reluctantly agreed.

It did make everything in life better; the knowledge that Neal was alive. It was as if the black cloud that hovered over the Burke house had been swept away and the sun was bright and warm. They talked about him often, his many exploits, and theorized about how he was doing and _what_ he was doing. She knew well enough that Peter would have his ears on the ground for even a whisper from Interpol that indicated Nathan Clay had inherited some of Neal's perchance for criminal behavior. She asked him once what he would do if he found out that Neal had continued his questionable pursuits in Europe and he replied, "As long as he isn't in my jurisdiction, it will never be my problem."

And now she was in Paris to break the promise she had made to Peter. Neal was almost to her table. His smile was bright and easy; his dark hair a little longer than she remembers, sticking out from beneath a black fedora. He might have left Neal Caffrey behind in New York but he hadn't left his sense of style. He hadn't changed in two years but she knew she had. Losing Neal, and Peter's mourning, had been hard on her. Then little Neal came along and caring for a new baby was an exhausting job. Now at twenty months, he was a toddler, she was back to work, and that presented all new challenges. However, none of those things had taken the toll that the last two weeks had. It had been two weeks since Peter had been taken.

Neal was almost to her. When he was nearly beside her, oblivious to her presence, she lowered the magazine she had been hiding behind and called out, "Neal!"

He jerked to a stop so suddenly that the person walking behind him bumped into him, apologized and moved on. Neal stared at her in what could only be described as shock; the smile having vanished from his face. Any other time she would have found it amusing to see Neal so taken off guard; so unable to mask the quick emotions that washed across his face. Surprise, fear and even anger. She stood up, stepped around the small table, and wrapped him in a hug. He stood stiffly and Elizabeth could feel the tension in his frame; feel his heart pounding through his shirt. A small sob escaped her lips and she heard Neal's breath catch in his throat. After a moment, she felt his arms wrap around her hesitantly, embracing gently. She hadn't been held in two weeks and even though it wasn't Peter's arms around her, she knew that it was the arms of someone who could bring Peter back to her. She felt such relief that the tears fell down her face unbidden.

They stood there for what seemed like hours, right in the path of traffic, before she felt Neal's arms loosen their grip. He placed his hands on her shoulders, and stepped back, searching her face with intense blue eyes. His face had lost all color; he was deathly pale.

"What's wrong, Elizabeth?" he asked, "Where is Peter?"


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks for the reviews. This story is already written so, as they say, it is what it is. I am already working on my next one. :)_

 **Chapter Two**

Neal concentrated on keeping himself calm. Elizabeth _needed_ for him to be calm because she was anything but. Peter was alive; that was the important thing. The situation sounded precarious but as long as he was alive there was hope for a rescue. As long as he was alive, Neal could figure out something. After he had gotten that much information from Elizabeth he invited her back to his apartment. There, he assured her, they could speak in private and she could tell him everything she knew about what had happened. It was true that his apartment was a better place to talk than the street but there was another reason for his invitation. Neal was emotionally reeling from seeing Elizabeth after two years, finding out Peter was in serious danger and suddenly being called Neal Caffrey again. Even Mozzie called him Nathan now. Only three blocks away, he needed the time between the café and his apartment to regroup.

A few minutes later, he handed Elizabeth a bottled water, invited her to sit down and tell him everything. She had glanced around his accommodations when she entered but didn't comment on the sparse furnishings and lack of personal items. Neal felt sure it was because she had bigger things on her mind than his home decor. Once she had taken a sip of water, she told Neal what had brought her to Paris. She began with Peter being taken in the parking garage two weeks earlier. Then she related how proof of life, and then demands, had been delivered to the FBI via an encrypted email with a link to a live video feed.

"Peter arrested a man named Alejandro Diaz on counterfeiting," she explained, "he goes to trial in three weeks." She paused, "The people who have Peter want the evidence against Diaz to disappear and the charges dropped. If that doesn't happen, they will kill Peter."

"What is the FBI doing?" Neal asked. The FBI didn't negotiate but he knew full well they wouldn't take one of their own being kidnapped lightly, "Do they know who has him?"

"Yes," Elizabeth passed the folder she had been holding over to Neal, "They know who has him and they even are pretty sure where he is being held."

Opening the folder, He skimmed the contents quickly. He looked up at her questioningly. "How did you get this?"

"Clinton," she answered, "He's trying to keep me informed, as much as he can. He lets me know each time they get a new video of Peter," Her voice broke. "but now the State Department has taken over and his hands are tied. Neal," her voice was pleading, "They aren't doing anything-they say they are trying diplomatic avenues but Peter's running out of time."

Neal's mind was racing. It had been a long time since he had felt this level of fear; the kind of fear he had taken great pains to never experience again. Keeping people he cared about safe was the entire reason for his current life. It was the reason he kept his life simple, safe and free from emotional ties and commitments. It was a lonely life but preferable to the alternative. Yet in spite of all his efforts, he still found himself sitting at the table of his apartment, his heart hammering in his chest. He took a breath and reminded himself that he did not panic when faced with a problem; he came up with a solution, a plan of action. But three weeks wasn't much time to put together a plan on the scale that would be necessary to get Peter back. He had to work fast; he needed to get Mozzie and get started. But before he could do that, he had to get Elizabeth out of Paris and back to New York. He regretted what he was going to do, but it was necessary. He kept his eyes on the pages in his hand.

"Elizabeth, the _State Department_ is working on it. What do you think I can do that they can't?" It wasn't a question she had anticipated. Her pause was slight.

"They keep talking about policy and protocols," she burst out, "All about the correct diplomatic and legal procedures. Even if those things work they will take too much time, Neal, time Peter doesn't have." When she paused he met her eyes. "They have to play by the rules; _you do not."_

Even though he knew it, it still hit him hard when she said it. Regular people played by the rules. Did things the legal way. And that was what everyone wanted; rule following and law abiding people. Until that way didn't work anymore and then they came to him. And that was why, after two years, she was here now. It caused a taste of bitterness to rise in his throat, and made the rest of what he had to do a little easier.

"I don't know what I can do, Elizabeth. I don't have the resources I once had. Everyone I ever knew thinks I am dead."

"Are you saying you won't help me, won't help _Peter_?" The disbelief in her voice hurt, as did the look in her eyes. She had put her hope in him and he knew his words were letting her down. But it was necessary. One thing he had learned was that sometimes to help, you had to hurt.

It was hard to meet her eyes but he did. "Not won't, _can't_. I'm _dead,_ Elizabeth, there's not much I can do."

"Funny, you look pretty alive to me," she snapped back, her disappointment now turning to anger. Neal could handle her anger better than her disappointment.

"What I mean is that I am out of the game," he let a hint of desperation creep into his voice, "I left it behind to keep you all safe."

"Peter _isn't_ safe, Neal, he's been taken and God knows what they are doing to him." She searched his eyes, "They will kill him if they don't get what they want."

"But at least _this time_ it isn't my fault," He let the bitterness he felt come through in his tone.

"So if its not your fault he's on his own?" Her voice was incredulous. "What kind of friend are you?"

"A _dead_ one." He was amazed at how steady his voice was. "I'm sorry Elizabeth, but there isn't anything I can do."

"Yes, I guess you are dead after all." Her eyes flashed and he wasn't surprised when her hand landed smartly against his face. "Dead To Me."

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"Her hand print is still on your face." Mozzie commented, sitting across from Neal. "Mrs. Suit always has been a fiery one."

In front of them were pages of paper that had been in the folder Elizabeth had handed to Neal. She had been so angry when she stormed away she hadn't retrieved it. Neal was glad that was the case because the notes held information she hadn't shared during their discussion. It bothered him to have upset her, shattering her faith in him the way he had, but it was necessary. If he was going to be able to do anything to help Peter no one could know he was involved. And the sooner he got rid of Elizabeth the faster he could get Mozzie and get busy formulating a plan.

"Alberto Cordero," Neal said, "that is who has Peter."

"I don't understand, if the FBI know who has him why don't they just go get him?"

"Well, the FBI's hand are tied by the State Department. Apparently there are rules, protocols and political situations to take into account." His tone conveyed that his opinion of those things was not very high.

"So Alberto Cordero has the suit and there are rules, protocols and political situations to take into account." Mozzie repeated slowly, "That does not bode well. Who exactly _is_ this Alberto Cordero?"

"Venezuelan crime lord and drug dealer," Neal supplied, "He has operations all along the East Coast." All this information Neal had gleaned from the pages of information that had been compiled by Clinton Jones.

"And why would the State Department care if the FBI raided a known crime lord and drug dealer? I would think they'd be happy to see him out of New York."

"That's kind of the problem, Moz, he isn't _in_ New York," Neal looked at him pointedly, "So, who do we know in Venezuela?"


	3. Chapter 3

_Apres moi is French for After Me. Thanks to all who are reading this story, and thanks for the reviews._

 **Chapter Three**

"I need to know everything about Cordero and this" Neal flipped a page in the folder "Alejandro Diaz the FBI has in custody."

Mozzie was both pleased and apprehensive at the sudden appearance of his old friend Neal Caffrey. He now had a friendship with a _new_ friend, Nathan Clay. Nathan Clay _was not_ Neal Caffrey; his face was the same but Nathan didn't plot or plan anything other than gallery openings and the occasional culinary experience for his drop dead gorgeous assistant, Elodie. Not exactly a slave to legalities, Nathan tended to walk a pretty straight line for the most part. Risk taking was not on his agenda.

For almost a year, Mozzie had been trying to coax Neal Caffrey out of the shell of Nathan Clay with little success; yet one fifteen minute visit from Elizabeth Burke had done the trick. It was definitely Neal Caffrey that now sat before him, completely focused on assimilating information and formulating a plan to save Peter.

"I will see what I can find out," Mozzie promised, "Anything else?"

"A list of any known associates. I need to find a way to get close to Cordero."

"Why do you need to get close to him? Why not just arrange for the evidence to disappear?" Mozzie would love an excuse to visit New York again. "It seems a lot easier than actually going to Venezuela and taking on this Cordero fellow."

"Peter wouldn't want me to do that." Neal answered.

" _He wouldn't want you to do that?_ " Mozzie repeated in disbelief. "You've got be kidding me. Your current life is the result of doing something the suit wouldn't have approved of. Since when has that been a reason not to do something that needed to be done?"

"Well, never, actually" Neal admitted with a smile, "and if I thought stealing the evidence would work I'd do it," his smile faded. "But I don't think it will. I don't expect that Cordero will just buy Peter a plane ticket to New York and send him home with his apologies. He's going to kill him either way."

"Sad but most probably true," Mozzie replied, "So I take it we are going to South America. What's the plan?"

"I don't know yet," Neal said slowly, "It depends. This Diaz person must be indispensable; his arrest is causing Cordero a problem. I need to find out what that problem is."

"And then?" Mozzie pressed.

Neal smiled, "The plan will be to provide Cordero a solution."

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When Mozzie arrived at the apartment the next morning, Neal was pouring over all the information Jones had provided, along with the new stack of information Mozzie had sent to him via computer the night before.

"Did you sleep at all?" Mozzie didn't get an answer and didn't really need one. Neal was still wearing the clothes he had on the day before and he hadn't shaved, either. He was in almost exactly the same position Mozzie had left him in eleven hours earlier, but the pad he had started making notes on the night before now held several pages. Neal had been busy. He looked up at Mozzie.

"I need a piece of stolen art," Neal stated.

"That's never presented much of a problem in the past," Mozzie mused. There was a gleam in Neal's eyes that, in addition to sleep deprivation, meant he had a plan. Mozzie took a deep breath. "What do you have in mind?"

"Something the Venezuelan authorities will want back."

"Okay, you want to steal a national treasure or something?"

"I don't have time to steal a national treasure, Mozzie." Neal answered impatiently, "so I need to do the next best thing; I need to _forge_ a stolen national treasure."

Mozzie's face brightened with inspiration of his own. "Not really a national treasure, but several years ago a Matisse portrait of a kneeling woman was stolen from a Venezuelan museum." He looked at Neal. "They'd probably really like it back. You can do a Matisse in no time flat."

"That will work," Neal agreed; his painting was one skill he had kept honed. "And where did you stash those pre-Columbian relics we liberated from that Chambers fellow?"

"Chicago, I think," Mozzie supplied, "You want them, too? Want to fill me in?"

"Cordero has a transportation problem," Neal supplied. "His buddy Alejandro, in addition to his own side business of counterfeiting, handled the logistics of moving product from Venezuela to the United States."

"I am aware," Mozzie answered, having supplied that information himself. "So your plan is to provide Cordero with a solution to his transportation problem?"

"Yes," Neal answered, "And I have a way in." He pointed at a name on the list of associate Mozzie had complied. "Arturo Michelena. Keller worked for him once. I remember him talking about it. I can use that to get to him, and use him to get to Cordero."

"Arturo Michelena? I know your mind is like a steel trap but how in the world could you remember the names of everyone Keller ever mentioned working for?"

"Not everyone, Moz, just this one." At Mozzie's blank look Neal explained, "Arturo Michelena was a nineteenth century Venezuelan painter." He shrugged. "Keller said the guy he worked for was as art ignorant as a person could get, and given his namesake, thought it was ironic."

"The wonders never cease," Mozzie shook his head, "A Matisse you can forge and a name you can drop. You think you can use Keller's name to get in to see Michelena?"

"I do. I will go to him with a problem," Neal explained, "I have a shipment of art that I need a safe place to store until I can move it to the states for liquidation."

Mozzie smiled as the plan began to take shape in his mind. "You need storage but you have transportation."

"Exactly," Neal confirmed, "And if Arturo is a friend of Cordero's he's going to see an opportunity for the two of us to help each other out."

Neal went on to explain some of the finer points of the plan. He would convince Cordero to allow him to check the security of the location, and upon finding them adequate, he would move the artifacts into storage as close to Peter's location as possible.

"Due to the political climate, the State Department is getting little cooperation from the Venezuelan government. The FBI's can't do anything on foreign soil, and the US government won't risk an international incident by authorizing a team to retrieve Peter," Neal explained, "The only way for Peter to be found is for the Venezuelan authorities to find him. And to do so, they have to be properly motivated to raid Cordero's complex."

"So they are going to get some information about stolen pre-Colombian artifacts, plus a missing Matisse." Mozzie supplied.

"Simple, really," Neal smiled, "How fast can you get those items to Venezuela?"

"It will take a little wrangling but I should be able to make it happen by the end of the week. And get us a place to stay as well."

"Good," Neal smiled through tired eyes, "I have a Matisse to paint."

"Okay, it's a plan," Mozzie nodded, "It might take a little time to get your ID and a cover story in place, but after that we are good to go."

Neal was shaking his head. "There's no time for that Mozzie, Peter only has nineteen days left and I will need all of that to get inside Cordero's complex."

"I'm worried about Peter, too, but rushing isn't a good idea," Mozzie warned him. "This isn't mission difficult, its _Mission Impossible._ You have to be smart and have a good alias in place or you'll be dead before he is."

"Nathan Clay already has an established history in the art world. Cordero can check him out and he will pass with flying colors."

This was the part about the return of Neal Caffrey that had caused Mozzie's apprehension. "So your plan is to fly into a foreign country, con a drug lord and screw him over and do it all under your actual name?"

"Well, Nathan Clay isn't my _actual_ name," Neal corrected.

"But Nathan Clay isn't just an alias you can drop and go back to your real life," Mozzie reminded him. "What is it you keep telling me? Nathan Clay _is_ your real life now."

"I know," Neal admitted reluctantly, "but it's the only way I can get to Peter in time."

Mozzie studied his friend. "You do this and there may be no coming back for Nathan Clay."

"Après moi, le déluge," Neal said firmly, "If I don't do it, Peter _won't_ come back and that's not an option."

Mozzie sighed in resignation; Neal Caffrey was definitely back, "So, _Damn the consequences?_ "

"That's about it."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"Señor Michelena," Nathan Clay extended his hand, his smile easy, "I thank you so very much for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice."

"Anything I can do for a friend of Señor Keller, I am pleased to do," he let go of Neal's hand and motioned for him to take a seat. Being considered a friend of Matthew Keller was distasteful to Neal, but it was a necessary evil. His motto for this trip to South America was By Any Means Necessary. He had been living by a new set of rules for a long time and now he was actively breaking most of them. He was sitting on a patio overlooking rather impressive gardens. Arturo Michelena may be a small fish in the Cordero world, but his pond appeared rather large to Neal.

"You have a difficulty that you need my assistance with?" Michelena began as he waved his consent to the domestic servant that was hovering near the patio doors with drinks. She nodded at his gesture and came quickly, setting out glasses and a pitcher filled with a dark liquid.

"Chicha Morada," Michelena volunteered, pouring first Neal a glass and then himself. "This drink dates back to before even the Inca's, Señor Clay. It is made from blue corn and spices."

"I do have a small problem," Neal took a sip of the dark blue beverage. There was a distinct cinnamon flavor, as well as a hint of pineapple. He allowed himself to sound almost embarrassed. "The location I normally use for storage purposes is currently inaccessible."

Michelena listened as his dark eyes met Neal's. "Inaccessible? And why is that?"

"It has been compromised by its proximity to a gasoline smuggling operation," Neal continued. "The entire area is under surveillance."

Michelena sighed heavily, "Yes, the authorities both here and in Colombia have stepped up efforts to stop the petrol smuggling." He took a drink of his chicha. "They have even started using armed helicopters on each side of the border. It is a serious problem."

"It certainly is causing me a serious problem," Neal admitted, "I need a secure storage location for a couple of weeks."

"Two weeks?" Michelena looked at him curiously, "Such a short time. Then what?"

Neal shrugged, "Sixteen days, actually. Then the items will be on their way to New York. I have buyers there, eagerly waiting to take them off my hands."

"Not wishing to insult you, Señor Clay," Michelena began, "But given your association with Señor Keller, and your wish to avoid the scrutiny of the Venezuelan authorities," he paused, "I assume the items you are seeking to store will not be leaving Venezuela by legal routes?"

"The provenance of the items in my possession are a bit… _unclear_ ," Neal admitted with a smile, "and therefore I will be using an alternate, less restrictive, transportation."

"Your alternate transportation," Neal could see Michelena's mind connecting the dots, "To New York, you say, and it is very reliable?"

"Of course," Neal snorted, "In my line of work, it has to be." He allowed himself to look impatiently at his host, "Transportation isn't my problem, Señor Michelena, short term, secure storage is. Can you help me or not?"

Michelena studied him a moment, non-pulsed by his directness. "I am sure I could find you storage space here, but," He paused, "I have a friend that might have an even better option for you."

"I would be most grateful," Neal responded, "And I am willing to compensate your friend generously for his assistance. He can name his price," he smiled, "within reason, of course."

"I think you will find his terms very acceptable," Michelena said, "Somewhat of an exchange, you see. He also has a product that needs transport from Venezuela to New York, and like you, recent developments have caused him difficulty. He needs reliable transportation."

"And he has a secure location for storage?" Neal did his best to convey his amazment at such an unforeseen turn of events.

"Very secure," Michelena assured him. "It's a fortress, really."

"Excellent," Neal smiled his best smile, "If his location meets my needs, and he is willing to provide storage, I will am sure we can work out a mutually beneficial arrangement."

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"I meet with Cordero tomorrow," Neal said to Mozzie, sinking into the soft sofa. He was tired and needed a good night's sleep before tomorrow. Four nights and less than ten hours total of sleep was starting to take its toll.

He knew that as soon as he had left, Michelena had called Cordero. Cordero would be more than cautious; in addition to being an international drug dealer, he was hiding a kidnapped Federal agent in his fortress. Cordero would have checked up on Nathan Clay before the four p.m. meeting and any slip, any indication that Nathan Clay was anyone other than who he claimed to be or was there for anything other than a storage location, would end badly.

"Everything is ready," Mozzie replied. "I have all transport details." He looked at Neal, "It wasn't easy, you know, I haven't worked in this part of the world before. I had to call in more of our favors than I like to on any one con."

"This isn't a con, Moz," Neal's protest was stronger, his voice sharper, than he had intended it to be. He hadn't run even a small con in over two years. Like an alcoholic, he knew that even one drink would eventually lead into a downward spiral; one small con would do the same. "It's a _rescue mission_. It's to save Peter and get him home to his family."

"It's still a con," Mozzie insisted, the edginess of Neal's tone not lost on him. Nathan Clay may occasionally dabble in questionable art deals, but he didn't work as a confidence man. That had been Neal Caffrey, and as his friend Nathan insisted when Mozzie presented him with an opportunity for an easy score, Neal Caffrey was dead. "You've conned Michelena," Mozzie reminded him "you plan to con Cordero, and then to top it off, you plan to con the Venezuelan authorities."

" _To save Peter_ ," Neal repeated but Mozzie's eyes were fixed on his, forcing him to relent. "Okay, it's a con," Neal admitted, "But it's the only way to save him. And if it takes every favor we've ever collected, so be it. I won't need them anyway." His look was almost pleading. "I am out, Mozzie, I told you; I am not that person anymore."

Mozzie knew that wasn't true, and the almost desperate tone in Neal's voice told him that he didn't believe it either. But he wanted to; he had worked very hard to be Nathan Clay. Nathan Clay didn't form attachments that could be used against him; he didn't take chances that could impact the new life he had managed to construct. Even Mozzie had felt the distance that his friend now put between them. He studied Neal closely and finally knew the truth: being Neal Caffrey frightened him. Neal Caffrey cared about people and that made him vulnerable. Neal Caffrey, with all his skills at stuffing his feelings and hiding his emotions, could be _hurt_.

"Neal-" Mozzie began. He rarely slipped, but now he did. Neal corrected him.

"Nathan." Neal said quietly.

"I know you're Nathan Clay," Mozzie stated firmly, "But for this to work, you need to be Neal Caffrey." He didn't mention the fact that his friend had already changed into Neal Caffrey; it had happened the moment Elizabeth Burke arrived and told him Peter was in trouble. Neal shook his head firmly.

"No, Neal Caffrey is a thing of the past, Mozzie; I am doing this as Nathan Clay." He smiled, trying to lighten the mood. "Even my passport says so."

Seeing no use in arguing with denial, Mozzie sighed. "Well, a rose by any other name and all that, I suppose."


	5. Chapter 5

_To say that reviews (even just a couple words) make me happy would be such an understatement. They motivate and inspire me, and that is most welcome. And for those worried about Peter; we will catch up with him in Chapter Six. :)_

 **Chapter Five**

Neal left his rental car at the home of Arturo Michelena's and traveled several miles with him to reach the residence of Alberto Cordero. It was a huge, two story alabaster stucco structure, clearly an example of Spanish architecture, with arches above the doors and dominant windows. Open balconies graced the second floor, and the roof was low pitched with red roof tiling. Impressive, but light and airy, it didn't look exactly like a fortress. However, no one was more aware than Neal how deceiving appearances could be. There hadn't been a gate house, but Michelena had been buzzed in through the massive wrought iron gate that allowed visitors access to the long drive that lead to the house.

The talk between the two had only been small talk and Neal couldn't really recount what it had been about. He was pretty sure it was about raising cattle, something he had to admit he knew nothing about and had no desire to be educated on. Close to the border with Colombia, it was the Zulia State's main economic activity. At least the officially recognized one. Michelena told Neal that Cordero was in the cattle business, but Neal knew his main activity did not involve cattle. Cordero was in the drug business.

They were met at the door by the a servant, complete with the black dress and white apron. She even wore a white cap on her graying hair.

She knew Michelena by name and only glanced at Neal. He flashed her his best smile, but she seemed remarkably unimpressed by it. Not his best start, he had to admit. Some of the house staff would have to be won over at some point. He just hoped there was a young impressionable house maid or cook on Cordero's payroll.

"Señor Cordero is waiting in the solarium," she said stiffly, "Please follow me."

The two men were lead through rather opulent rooms to the back of the house where Cordero was awaiting them. Before they approached them, however, Neal was subjected to a quick frisk by a rather large intimidating man who stood like a guard dog near the open doors to the solarium. Michelena was spared that particular treatment and gave Neal a small smile.

"Alberto is a cautious man, Señor Clay, and you do want security, yes? Well, this is all part of that package."

"I completely understand," he replied, holding his arms out to his side cooperatively as the man moved his hands quickly and confidently around Neal's legs and body. After a moment, he stepped aside and motioned to the men to approach Cordero.

He was a very distinguished older gentlemen, with tight curly hair that had receded quite a bit, dark eyes, dark skin and a deep cleft in his chin. He stood to welcome them, actually embracing Michelena before extending his hand to Neal. His smile was easy, but his eyes were hard.

"Bonjour Monsieur Clay," He said easily. "Bienvenue chez moi."

"Merci," Neal didn't have to fake his surprise at Cordero's mastery of French. "Vous parlez très bien le français."

"Merci," Cordero smiled at Michelena, "However, I suppose we should continue in English. Please, have a seat." He stepped over to the bar. "Singani? Cuba Libres?"

Neal and Michelena took their seats in chairs across the small glass coffee table from where Cordero was seated. Michelena gave a quick answer.

"Cuba Libres, por favor," At Neal's questioning look he supplied, "Venezuelan rum and coke, Señor Clay."

It was always tricky when offered a drink by a mark. For some people, a refusal to drink with them was a sign that you couldn't be trusted. For others, to be too quick to accept a drink was seen as a lack of good judgment. Time constraints hadn't allowed Neal to profile Cordero to know which way he would interpret Neal's response. Since he didn't know, he decided to err in favor of being in charge of his facilities.

"I am fine, thank you." He answered politely.

"Just cola, perhaps?" Cordero offered, "Or perhaps you would prefer Perrier?" Neal was certain there was amusement in his tone as he offered the French brand of bottled water. He had apparently chosen wisely by declining the drink; Cordero didn't seem in the least put off by his refusal.

"Perrier would be perfect."

Cordero served Neal's drink on ice first, then returned to the bar, poured his own and Michelana's drinks before joining them again.

"An art lover, are you Señor Clay?"

Neal had no doubt that Cordero knew everything there was to know about Art Dealer and Gallery owner Nathan Clay. "Yes, very much so." He sipped his water, "And you, Señor Cordero, are you an art lover as well?"

Cordero studied him just a moment before laughing, "Not really, I am ashamed to say. All this," he waved his arm to gesture to the various artwork that graced the area, "This is the work of the designer, nothing more."

"May I?" Neal glanced in the direction of a painting that hung on the wall of the adjacent room. "From here, that looks like the work of Joaquín Sorolla."

"Please do so," Cordero rose from his chair to accompany him into the room. "I must confess that I have never even been curious enough to see who the artist is. It was chosen simply for its subject matter. As you may know, I am a cattle farmer."

Among other things, Neal thought. Aloud he said, "Yes, your friend mentioned that during our drive here." Neal felt a rush of excitement when closer inspection of the work revealed the artists name; Spanish painter Joaquin Sorolla. " Sun of afternoon, 1903" He read, keeping his voice from betraying his feeling of triumph. The luck of a Sorolla hanging in Cordero's study was ranked right up with the Matisse portrait that was stolen from the Venezuelan Museum. It was like the entire set up had been designed with him in mind. It gave him a new found confidence; this was going to work. It was going to work perfectly, and he would get Peter home to his family where he belonged.

"Impressive, Señor Clay." Neal could tell by Cordero's face that he was truly impressed.

"Thank you," Neal answered in an attempt at humility, "however, I _am_ an art dealer; It is my specialty after all."

"Yes of course you are," he answered, patting Neal almost affectionately on the back. "I hear you have a little problem that I might be able to help you with."

The two men joined Michelena in the solarium to continue their conversation.

"Yes, I have the need for a secure storage location for the next ah….fifteen days. Señor Michelena," he nodded to the man as he took his seat, "thought that perhaps the two of us could work out a trade." He met Cordero's eyes and let some of the humility fade from his voice. "He says that you have also have a little problem that I might be able to help you with."

Cordero took his tone well and smiled at his words. "Yes. I need a shipment moved to the states, and he tells me you can provide that. I certainly have adequate storage here for you to use. I will need to see some verification that you can meet my needs, of course, before any items can be moved onto my property."

"As will I, Señor Cordero," Neal replied with a smile of his own "The items I have are very….valuable…and discretion about them is as important as the security."

"Of course," Cordero answered, "You will find my household is very discreet, Señor Clay."

"Excellent, and I have some details on transportation." Neal reached down and picked up the case he had brought with him. "I think you will find everything in order. Some details, you must understand, are kept even from me." He opened the case and handed Cordero a folder. "But I trust them implicitly, and so can you. Our items will, after all, be traveling together." He smiled, "We will be _in the same boat_ , as they say, both literally and figuratively."

Cordero took the pro-offered pages and looked over them. Even though he seemed to be looking quickly, Neal could tell he knew what to look for. Had anyone except Mozzie put it together, Neal would have been at least slightly concerned but since it was Mozzie, he was not. Neal leaned back confidently and waited.

After a few moments, Cordero handed the pages back. "This looks good, Señor Clay, and as you say, we both have a lot at stake in this shipment. So, if you are satisfied, I am satisfied. I will be happy to let you take a look at the room I have available for your items, and go over our security arrangements. But after dinner," he stood, "I insist both of you stay as my guests."

"Alberto has the best chef in Zulia state," Michelena assured him, "I try to wrangle a dinner out of him at least once every month."

"That would be excellent," Neal said, "I haven't had a decent meal since I arrived. I hate to say I haven't been impressed with the culinary talents at my current accommodations."

"Señor Clay, I have a large hacienda here and I insist you be my guest during your time in Venezuela." Cordero put his arm around Neal's shoulder as if they were becoming great friends as they began the journey to Cordero's dining room. "I am sure you will feel more comfortable near your treasures, and it will give us time to become better acquainted."

Had the man not been a drug lord holding Peter prisoner, Neal might have actually thought him kind. His plan had been to manipulate Cordero into an invitation, and it had fallen into his lap almost effortlessly. Cordero motioned to another painting hanging above a huge mahogany desk as they passed by. Another painting of cattle near a beach. "Perhaps you could even educate me on the artwork I spent hundreds of thousands of dollars purchasing."

Another Sorolla. Neal hadn't had anything to drink but water, but he suddenly felt almost light-headed. He was tipsy; tipsy with the thrill that came when a con started clicking together like clockwork. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed the feeling.

"Another work of Joaquin Sorolla, I believe." Neal was beyond confident now. Reveling in the moment, he wasn't sure his feet were even touching the expensive tile.

Cordero rewarded him with a slap on the back and a hearty laugh, "I think I like you very much Señor Clay. How fortunate for both of us that we have crossed paths this way."

"I completely agree," Neal, high on life for the first time in a long time, returned Cordero's smile. "I feel the same way, Señor Cordero; I couldn't have planned things better myself."


	6. Chapter 6

_Thanks for reviewing everyone. No1butNeal, yes I do see your reviews. Thank you so very much for posting them :)_

 **Chapter Six**

The first three days after being ambushed in the parking garage were still a blank to Peter. He hadn't been injured; he had been drugged. He remembered the distinctive sharp jab in his neck, the gray walls of the garage swimming before his eyes. He had been grabbed by rough hands, and he vaguely remembered seeing his feet dragging in front of him as he was pulled backwards. After that, there had been nothing. When he had awakened, his head pounding, he was lying on a cot in what looked like a solitary confinement prison cell. Four walls in a ten by ten space; no windows, a metal door, a sink and a toilet. He had no idea where he was. He may still be in New York, or in Seattle, for all he knew. The last time he had been trapped in a cell, he had called Neal. Neal had talked him out of it. But this time, he was on his own. He checked the room but found no way out and nothing he could use to manufacture one. He had asked about his location but had received no answer to his inquiry.

Peter had been held in the small cell for just over three weeks. It would have been easy to lose track of the days he had been a prisoner but this problem had been avoided by the fact that every few days, men would come into the room, make him hold a copy of the New York Times, and make a brief video. They spoke with a heavy Spanish accent and told him he had been taken to exert pressure on his co-workers to blow the case against Alejandro Diaz. Diaz had been taken down in an operation to shut down a counterfeiting ring. They had gotten him dead to rights, seizing over three million dollars in counterfeit currency along with equipment used to produce it. Peter insisted it was a waste of time; the FBI didn't negotiate with kidnappers. The video they recorded was proof of life. At each visit, they would tell him how much longer the FBI had to meet their demands before he was killed. It kept the number of days he had been held, and the number of days he had left to live, very clear in his mind.

He had fought the men the first several times they had come, refusing to cooperate with them in any way. But lately he had given up on that. It did no good; the men would simply pummel him, hold him upright and shoot the video anyway. He would then be left, bruised and bleeding, and the men would be on their way. Seeing no benefit in his actions, he had ceased in his rebellious actions, and the men had ceased in their violent ones. It made the days less painful.

As the number of days mounted, he had even found himself looking forward to the visits and more so when, at his request, they began to leave the paper with him. One of the men had even left him a pencil to do the crossword with. From that point on, he made a mark on the wall each day to help keep count. Those keeping him were very businesslike and as long as he cooperated with them, they didn't hurt him. In fact, except for the fact that he was being held in a windowless cell with the threat of death delivered every few days, he was being treated well enough. Even the food, delivered through the slot in the door twice a day, wasn't bad. In fact, the food was more often than not remarkable.

Peter had created a schedule of sorts. The lights came on each day for what Peter determined the daylight hours; they clicked off later for what he guessed where the hours of darkness. Peter exercised each day with sets of push ups and sit ups. He even jogged in place, working up a sweat before splashing cold water on his face from the small sink. There wasn't a mirror in the room, but he could tell he was looking pretty scruffy. The men had left him a pencil but not a razor. He would read and re-read the paper including sections he hadn't ever read in all his years in New York. He was also given a change of clothes every few days when the paperboys, as he began to call them, arrived for the proof of life video. He had done fairly well he thought, keeping himself moving and his mind sharp. But the isolation was starting to break him down.

During the last week, it had become more difficult to force himself to stick to a routine. What difference did it make, he began to wonder? He would find himself pulling the pillow over his face and trying to sleep some of the hours away. At least in his dreams, he could see Elizabeth.

He was down to twelve days left when the small wad of paper dropped through the slot in his door. He had been sitting on the edge of the cot trying to convince himself that he needed to get up, to jog or something to clear the fog that seemed to be settling in his mind. Too early for the second meal of the day, the movement of the metal cover caught his attention. The small paper dropping silently through the opening made his heart beat faster. It was a departure from the norm; the most his routine had altered in weeks. Motivated to move, he got up and retrieved it. It was small; about the size of a nickel. With curiosity, he pulled the paper open and to his amazement found a message written there. Someone was reaching out to him.

 _Got a plan. Might take a few days. Hang in there._

Then across the bottom in smaller letters:

 _If this message does not self-destruct in five seconds, chew it up and swallow it._

Peter read the paper three times. He couldn't believe it. He knew the FBI wouldn't negotiate, but he knew they would be doing everything they could to find him. Apparently they had found him, but why didn't they just come in and get him? Was there some kind of undercover operation in play? But that made no sense. The kidnapping of a federal agent was grounds enough to storm the place; there would be no use for an undercover operation. And the message itself was strange; no self-respecting FBI agent he knew would use that cheesy Mission Impossible line. Something else was going on here. He had questions, but soon they faded from his mind. He decided that it didn't matter who had the plan to rescue him; it could be the cook for all he cared. As long as they could get him out of the small cell and back to Elizabeth it didn't matter who they were or what their motivation was. Peter put the small paper into his mouth, chewed and swallowed obediently.

 _Hang in there._ The note has said. Encouraged for the first time in twenty-four days, he hit the floor and did twenty push-ups. Someone had a plan.

After four days past with nothing further, Peter had began to believe that the note had been a cruel joke or worse, a figment of his imagination. The jolt of hope the note had brought him had helped clear his mind; helped refocus his efforts on keeping fit and alert as possible. If a plan were in play, it could well need him to be on his game. But as the days drug on, each one longer than the one before it, it again became a challenge to motivate himself to move from the cot. Then finally, another small wad of paper dropped through the slot in the door. He bounded off the cot and retrieved it expectantly.

 _Tomorrow is Independence Day. Be prepared for fireworks._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

As it turned out, the next day _was_ Independence day for Peter. Even though he had been warned that things were going to depart from the norm, it still seemed almost unbelievable when it actually happened. Unbelievable and quite terrifying.

He heard something, almost like the fireworks he had been told to expect, and then the sound of many feet coming down the hallway. One thing about his seclusion was that there was almost always total silence. Even when the Paperboys came, he usually never knew they were there until he heard the key turning in the door. There were loud voices and noises, shouting and crashing. His heart began to beat faster in his chest. When they came closer, stopping at his door, he realized the demanding voices were not speaking English. It sounded like Spanish. His fear magnified when he realized the men were coming in, and without a key. That was the crashing he had heard; they were breaking into the rooms that lined the hallway. He reminded himself that he had been told something would happen today; he had to believe this was all a part of the plan that he had been alerted to days before. He had to believe that the men breaking down the metal doors were coming to free him, not to kill him.

When the armed men finally entered the room, he was sure they were surprised to see him. This didn't exactly fit his hope that they were there to rescue him. They were in uniforms, and it didn't take him long to realize that they were law officers. He could tell by the way the shoved him against the wall and checked him for weapons, and then the way their demeanor changed when they realized he was no threat. He was pretty sure he was then asked his name, to which he responded in English.

"I am Peter Burke of the FBI." His voice was weak and hoarse. He hadn't spoken aloud in days.

There was confused looks among the men, and one used his radio. He and two others stayed with Peter, the others moved on down the hall, giving the next door the same treatment his had received. The men motioned for Peter to take a seat, and he did so. Moments later, another man entered the room.

"I am Sub-Inspector José Jolivald, Policia Municipal de Machiques," he said, producing a badge Peter only glanced at. At this point, he really didn't care who the man was. "Who are you? Why are you being held here?"

Peter didn't answer the man's question but asked one of his own. "Where is here?" His voice still wavered in and out from nonuse and he tried to clear his throat "Where am I?" Jolivald looked at him questioningly but answered him none the less.

"Machiques, in Zulia State, Venezuela," He replied, pausing between each location, watching Peter closely. "Are you American? How long has Cordero been holding you here?"

Peter's mind was spinning, and he was glad he was sitting because suddenly the room was spinning too. Venezuela? Who the hell kidnapped a person and took them to _Venezuela_? He looked at the man in confusion.

"I'm in _Venezuela_?" he croaked. No wonder the FBI hadn't found him. No wonder no one had come for him in almost a month. He was in another country. His face must have shown his shock because Jolivald was showing much more patience at not being answered than Peter probably would have in his place. He stepped closer to Peter and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"It is good, Amigo," he said squeezing him reassuringly, "You are safe now, but I need you to tell me your name."

Peter begin to shake. At first he thought it was just on the inside but when he looked at his hands, he saw they were trembling. He gripped them to stop the movement and was mortified when that didn't help. The trembling was becoming more and more pronounced and his efforts to control it failed. He looked up at Officer Jolivald almost desperately. After all this time, now that he was safe, he was going to fall apart. How humiliating. He concentrated on getting the words out.

"Yes, I am an American. I am Agent Peter Burke of the FBI. I've been here twenty-nine days and…" his throat tightened as his trembling increased, "and I want to go home."

Things that occurred immediately after he choked out those words were sort of a blur. He was aware of Officer Jolivald speaking quickly to someone over the radio, reaching past him to retrieve a blanket from the cot and wrapping it around Peter's shoulders. It didn't seem to help the violent trembling that was engulfing him; he wasn't cold, so it was strange that he was shaking so intensely.

"Se acabó, Senor Burke," Jolivald said softly, "It is over. We need to let the médico check you out, and then I promise, _we will get you home."_

Peter hadn't shown weakness during his kidnapping or the confrontations with the paperboys. But at those words, he couldn't help the tears of relief that stung his eyes and started to trickle down his face. He couldn't formulate an answer; his throat was tight. He simply nodded.

Less than an hour later, he was in the office of Dr. Mendez. Jolivald assured Peter that the Venezuelan Government had notified the United States State Department that he had been found safe and that he would be able to place a call to Elizabeth personally as soon as he got to his room. Peter wanted to hear her voice, but at the moment didn't trust himself to be able to talk to her. Hopefully, when he had settled into his room, he would feel more composed and could make a call he had only dreamed of making.

When he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass of an office cabinet Peter understood better the patience Jolivald had shown him. He hardly recognized himself and could feel the trembling, which had almost subsided, start fresh at the sight. His face was covered in scruffy, uneven hair, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He had lost weight, too; his clothes, worn two days, crumpled and in disarray, hung from his frame. He was pale and looked haggard. Actually, he looked like a man who had been held in solitary confinement for nearly a month.

After a thorough exam, a shot of B-12, and instructions to increase his caloric intake, he was on the way to the hotel where Jolivald had procured his lodgings while arrangements where made to send him home. During the ride, Peter's head was clearer, and Jolivald told him again whose property he had been held on. Peter had heard of Cordero but had no dealings with the man or his organization in New York. Or so he had thought. Jolivald told Peter the reason that Cordero's had taken him; something Jolivald had only learned upon contacting the Venezuelan Government. Apparently a counterfeiter Peter had recently nabbed had close ties to Cordero, and Cordero was desperate to get him back.

Jolivald had not been aware that the US suspected Cordero had taken Peter. He had stormed the complex after receiving information that Cordero was in possession of Venezuelan artifacts he intended to smuggle out of the country. The artifacts, including a painting that had been stolen the year before from a Venezuelan Museum, had been found two cells down from where Peter had been held. Cordero denied ownership of the items.

Peter didn't share the fact that he had been tipped off about the raid before it had happened. He said nothing of the notes he had received, or the fact that he was pretty sure Jolivald's raid had actually been a part of someone's else's plan. He didn't know what had gone on inside the Cordero household during the past week, but he knew he had a friend there. Someone had saved him, and whoever they were, he didn't want to repay them by getting them in trouble with the local authorities. He kept quiet.

wcwcwcwcwcwcwcwcwcwcwcwcwc

"Who do we have on the ground here?" Peter was amazed at how huge the hotel suite seemed. Some would probably consider it far less than luxurious, but after nearly a month in a 10 x 10 cell, it seemed like a castle.

Jones' voice came back across the line. "No one, our hands were tied by the State Department." Peter was still trying to soak in the fact that he was over two thousand miles from home and on another continent.

"I know _we_ don't have anyone here, but who, CIA, DEA, who was on the inside at Cordero's?" Only someone on the inside could have slipped notes to him.

"No one was on the inside," Jones insisted, "except for the domestic who alerted the local authorities about the stash of Pre-Columbian relics Cordero was planning to smuggle into the States. Lucky for you, Cordero keeps his stolen art in the same place he keeps his stolen FBI Agents."

Peter knew luck had nothing to do with it. The authorities had come for the artifacts, but Peter was fairly certain that he was the real reason they had received the tip about the artifacts in the first place. Whoever had sent him the notes had a plan to get him out, and Peter had been warned the day before the raid to expect fireworks. The fireworks had been in the form of rapid gunfire between Cordero's men and the local authorities. The raid had been part of the plan to get him out; but whose plan? A thought was moving around in the back of Peter's mind, but it seemed more than improbable. Stolen artifacts and artwork had been used as bait to get the authorities to move on Cordero. The entire operations had a familiar feel to it. Who did Peter know who might have such items and be willing to lose them to let the Venezuelan's seize them? Who would take such a risk to save him?

"Someone was there, Jones, someone who knew I was there," Peter insisted, "Has Cordero _ever_ been tagged as an art thief or smuggler before now?" Peter asked.

"No, he hasn't" Jones admitted, "But maybe he was branching out."


	8. Chapter 8

_Thanks to all who are reading and reviewing this story. T_ _his is a short chapter, but to make up for that, I am posting it early :)_

 _This story has twelve chapters. There will be a sequal,_ Bonjour Encore, _but it will be awhile before its ready._

 **Chapter Eight**

Peter didn't know how it was possible, but it was the only thing that made sense. What had just been a feeling had now become a belief. The two days he had been holed up in the hotel as his travel back to the states was arranged, he had read over the information Jones had forwarded him related to the case. According to the Venezuelan authorities, Cordero claimed a foreign art dealer, whom he refused to name, had needed a storage location for what he assumed was legally acquired arts. A domestic employee of Cordero's, whom no one could identify afterwards, informed local law enforcement that national relics were about to be smuggled out of the country. This information leads to the raid of Cordero's complex, and his subsequent rescue. Peter's friend on the inside hadn't only tipped off the authorities about the artifacts; Peter was pretty sure he had placed them there in the first place.

Much more was discovered during the raid than just artifacts; a large stash of money, illegal drugs and a kidnapped United States FBI agent. At that point, the Venezuelan Government had been contacted.

Descriptions taken from Cordero's staff of the art dealer, apparently a very charming French one, left little doubt in Peter's mind who had orchestrated the elaborate scheme. He hadn't recognized the handwriting on the notes he had been sent, but as more details came into focus, he recognized a familiar signature. The authorities didn't have a name, but there was only one person Peter knew who could make the ladies swoon on multiple continents and pull off a con of this magnitude at the same time.

wcwcwccwcwcwcwcwcwcwcwcwcwcwcw

"Est-ce que cette place est occupée?" Smooth and amused, Peter knew the voice even if he didn't know what it was saying. He looked up from his paper and was met with dancing blue eyes and a smile he had missed more than he had realized. Not in the least bit surprised by Neal's appearance in Venezuela, Peter's welcoming smile was almost as bright as Neal's.

"Long time no see." He had to fight the urge to jump up and pull the young man into a hug. Even though he had known for sometime that Neal was alive, the last time he had actually seen his friend, he had been lying on a slab in the morgue. It made the sight of him now all the more gratifying. He gestured for Neal to take the seat next to him; Neal took it with ease. Peter could see a genuine happiness in the blue eyes; Neal was as glad to see him as he was to see him.

"The Venezuelan Government sprung for my first class ticket home," Peter volunteered, "I think they are a little embarrassed with the situation. I doubt they did the same for you, though."

Not only did he know the Venezuelan authorities would not have bought Neal a ticket out of the country but would likely have not allowed him to go. They were looking for a French art dealer, after all, and even though Peter didn't speak French, he recognized the language. He dropped his voice. "And I'd lay off the French if I were you. At least until after take off." He couldn't take his eyes off Neal's face. He looked the same as he had before his departure, for the most part. His hair was a bit longer, and his attire was more downplayed than he was accustomed to seeing on Neal Caffrey, but then he hadn't been Neal Caffrey in two years. He had been Nathan Clay.

Neal adjusted himself in the seat, the smile still on his face. "Probably a good idea now that you mention it," he continued in English, "And no, sadly I had to buy my own ticket."

Peter's eyebrows raised "You actually paid for a ticket?" He knew Neal had started a new life, but some things seemed as unlikely as defying gravity. Neal gave Peter his patented look of mock insult.

"You wound me, Peter." He reached into his pocket, dug out his ticket receipt and handed it to Peter.

Amused, Peter took the ticket. First Class round trip. He had arrived in Caracas nearly two weeks earlier. Peter did some fast math in his head; Neal had been in the country only six days when he managed to slip Peter a note. Amazing, really, to have gotten in such proximity to Cordero in such a short period of time. That really didn't surprise Peter; Neal always had a way of amazing him with his ability to achieve objectives. But the name on the ticket did surprise him.

" _Nathan Clay_?" He looked at Neal in disbelief. "You came here using your actual _name_?" He searched Neal's face. "Was that wise?"

Neal's smile dimmed at Peter's rebuke. He took the ticket back and replaced it in his pocket. "Well, Nathan Clay isn't my actual name."

"Please tell me you gave Cordero a different one." Peter already knew the answer before Neal spoke. If he had planned on using an alias with Cordero, he would have entered the country using it.

"There wasn't time," Neal explained uneasily, his tone telling Peter he was well aware of the ramifications of having used his current persona of Nathan Clay. "I had to have something that would pass when Cordero checked it out." His smile returned. "You should be pleased, Peter, I didn't have another name at the ready."

"I am sure Mozzie could have scared you up something." Peter was aware of the recrimination in his tone and the irony of what had warranted it. The change of perspective was not lost on Neal. His eyebrows rose in his own amusement.

"Well, he wanted to, but as I said, I was on a rather tight schedule," Neal's comment confirmed what Peter had already guessed; when Mozzie disappeared from New York, it had been to join Neal in Paris. He would guess the little guy had also been present during Neal's excursion to South America.

Peter wondered how tight a schedule; when had Neal been informed of Peter's predicament, and more importantly who had informed him? Only one other person in New York knew Neal was alive. The same person who had always gone to Neal when Peter was in trouble. Elizabeth.

"Well, not that tight. You got me out with six days to spare."

"I like a little wiggle room in case the plan goes awry." Neal seemed pleased that Peter had left the topic of his choice of names behind. "Six days was still cutting it a little close."

"I take it, then, that everything went according to plan?" Peter asked. Obviously it had since he was out of Cordero's cell and on his way back to New York, but he asked the question anyway. He wanted to open up the topic of the plan; he couldn't wait to hear what it was and how Neal had executed it.

"Of course." Neal looked more than just a little pleased with himself, "Are you surprised? You know me, Peter, I work best under pressure."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Even after two years, Peter still picked up on the almost imperceptible way Neal relaxed after the flight left Venezuela. Neal had played off the dangers using his own name might present as the investigation into Cordero progressed, but Peter could tell he was concerned as well. With their departure, Peter relaxed too. As they sat readying for takeoff, he had been half afraid that someone would put two and two together and come drag Neal off the plane. It was still a real possibility that there could be fallout for Nathan Clay, but there was a better chance of it being survivable if the man wasn't on Venezuelan soil.

"So," Peter began as they settled in. It was a two-hour flight to Bogota, and from there, Peter would catch the connecting flight to the States and home. He saw from Neal's ticket that they would depart company. Neal's flight from Bogota was to Paris. "Tell me about this plan of yours." He looked at Neal with true interest. "I guess the stolen artifacts they seized were yours? On such a tight schedule I assume you didn't have time to rob a Venezuelan Museum. Unless, of course, it was one of your….ah…. _Neal Caffrey's_ former accomplishments?"

Neal's expression was one of amusement. "Neal Caffrey never robbed a Venezuelan Museum, Peter."

"That is good to know," Peter replied, "So how did you get your hands on a stash of missing Venezuelan artifacts?"

Neal looked at him skeptically. "What difference does it make? The less you know, the better off we will both be."

"Really? _The less I know_?" Peter couldn't help the incredulous laugh that escaped him. "Good grief, Neal-"

"Nathan," Neal corrected, but Peter didn't miss a beat. "-The fact that I know you are alive, are Nathan Clay, and just rescued me from a Venezuelan drug lord really makes any other information you might give me pale in comparison."

"That's true enough, I guess," Neal admitted, his smile slight, "I guess its just habit." His expression changed to one of concern. "I know how you are about following the rules, Peter, and I had to break quite a few the past couple of weeks."

The concern in Neal's eyes about how Peter would feel about his actions caught Peter off guard. "Well, I think I would find that a little hard to hold against you, given the circumstances."

The look on Neal's face reminded Peter that in the past, it had not always been that way. What had he often lectured? The end didn't justify the means? Doing the wrong thing for the right reason was still wrong? Even worse, he hadn't always been consistent in his view. Sometimes he had even encouraged the very behavior in Neal that he would at other times rebuke. He let out a deep breath before continuing.

"Okay, point taken," he conceded, "But we are not even in the United States, and I'd put my badge on the tray here so you know everything is off the record, but the truth is that I don't even have my badge."

Neal mulled it over mere seconds before bursting out. "Everything went perfectly!" It was clear he had been dying for the opportunity. "Peter, it was like….like the set up was custom made for _me_."

"Please elaborate." Neal's excitement, although entertaining to behold, was a bit troubling on some level. An itch, long unscratched, had obviously been scratched. And it had been an enjoyable experience.

"The fact that I recognized the name of one of Cordero's confidants as someone that Keller had worked for at one time, and I could use that to get a meeting with him." He eyes practically shone with pleasure. "Then, the fact that I had that stash of pre-Columbian art I got from Campbell-" he stopped and looked at Peter in alarm.

"No badge, remember?"

"And then the pièce de résistance, that Matisse" Neal shook his head in amazement "I needed a missing Matisse and, well, as you know, creating one is well within my skill set."

"So the Matisse Jolivald recovered, it's a forgery huh?"

Neal looked just a bit abashed. "Well, like I said before Peter, I didn't actually _rob_ the Venezuelan Museum, so I didn't have the original."

Of course, that made perfect sense. Peter nodded in understanding and Neal continued.

"Every person reacted just like I planned for them too," he said, his eyes still gleaming with pride, "The plan clicked together like clockwork, in fact, like a German Rombach & Haas Cuckoo." He had at first thought Neal looked older but with the excitement in his face as he recounted his exploits, he looked again like the young man Peter had known before.

"You actually enjoyed yourself." Peter had always known that Neal was an adrenaline junkie and he loved a good challenge. Even during his criminal heyday, scores were more about the thrill of pulling them off than the money they would pay out.

"Well, I wasn't really able to enjoy it until I knew you were safe," he admitted. "You had been locked in that room a long time. I wasn't sure how you would respond to the raid. Something still could have gone terribly wrong." Peter realized that Neal had been concerned that he could, in fact, have been killed during own rescue, which obviously, would have taken the enjoyment out of the entire scenario.

"I think I would have been less concerned if I knew it was you on the other end of those mysterious notes. I didn't even recognize your handwriting." He looked at Neal curiously, "Why is that and why didn't you tell me it was you?"

"You know Neal Caffrey's handwriting; not Nathan Clay's," Neal answered quietly, some of his excitement abating. "I just wanted to come and do what I needed to do. It seemed better that we not see each other."

"Yet here you are booked on the same flight as me," Peter observed. "I take it something changed your mind."

Neal didn't answer immediately. Peter didn't know if he wasn't sure of his answer or just wasn't sure he wanted to give it. "I just wanted to see you, I guess," he admitted reluctantly.

That admission wasn't easy, Peter could tell, but it pleased him to hear it. He smiled, "It also gives you an opportunity to revel in the successful execution of a brilliant plan with someone in a position to really appreciate it."

"That's true too," Neal admitted, "It's been awhile since I've been able to do that. My last brilliant plan…" he stopped and looked at Peter "Was the death of Neal Caffrey."

They had only spoken one time about the death of Neal Caffrey. It had been one, relatively brief phone call just a few weeks after Peter had discovered that Neal was alive. During that call, Peter had heard the anguish as Neal explained his reasons for his deception. He told Peter that it was enough for him to know that all the people he cared about were safe; Peter would have to settle for knowing he was alive and would do his best to be a man, and not a con. There could be nothing more. No friendship; no further contact. It was simply too hard. He assumed that was why Neal hadn't wanted to see him in Venezuela: it was hard to be reminded of what was lost.

He knew the answer before he asked the question. "And the afterglow of that plan wasn't quite as enjoyable as this one?

"No, not at all." Peter wished he could rewind Neal back to the happy place he had been in before, but he knew that moment had passed. They were half an hour from Bogota, where Peter would board a plane to New York and Nathan Clay would board one to Paris.

Peter sighed heavily. Adjusting his arm, he rested it on Neal's shoulders. Awkward, yes, but would they ever be seated side by side again? He gave him a hard squeeze.

"God, Neal, I have _missed you."_ His words were heartfelt and completely true. Peter missed everything about his friend and these few minutes together had only served to emphasis the fact. It made the impending separation almost unbearable to comtemplate.

Neal seemed to welcome the gesture, and this time didn't correct Peter's choice of name usage. The sadness left his face, and he smiled sheepishly at Peter.

"Yeah, I've missed me, too."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Peter had always thought one of the worst parts of losing Neal had been that he hadn't gotten to say goodbye. At the ambulance, as Neal had been loaded in, he had kept insisting to Neal that he would be okay. He refused to believe that it was the end; that he would lose Neal. After all, he was Peter Burke, and he refused to let things end that way. When they had, he had been beyond devastated, and he had regretted he hadn't taken those last few moments to let Neal know how much he meant to him.

Of course he later learned that Neal had known that those last moments were good bye and even as the blowfish venom took control of his senses, he had choked out his parting words. He knew they would be his last words to Peter, and given the great possibility that something could go wrong with his elaborate plan to fake his own death, they could have indeed been his last words altogether.

" _You're the only one who ever saw good in me. You are my best friend."_

Peter didn't believe the first part; a lot of people saw the good in Neal. Peter might have been the first, but he was not the only or the last one. Peter had believed the second. Even if he had begun to doubt it in the past two years, he no longer did. Neal Caffrey had died once to keep the people he cared about safe and now he had risked the new life he had struggled to create, the life of Nathan Clay, to save his.

He and Neal sat in the café in the Bogota airport. Neal had already commented on how excellent the coffee was, not that he expected anything less. Peter's flight was still an hour and fifteen minutes out. Neal's flight to Paris departed in less than half an hour. It was hard to face losing Neal again, but this time he was at least getting the chance to say goodbye.

Even though he treasured the opportunity, remembering how horrible not having it had been, he still was struggling with the actual execution. Neal glanced at his watch other than at Peter.

"I guess I need to get to the gate. They will be boarding soon." He said it but he didn't move. He was stalling, Peter knew. He smiled and looked down, fidgeted with the napkin on the table. He twisted and untwisted it.

"The last time you were walking out of my life I didn't know it," Peter began. He didn't mean for his tone to sound bitter, but it did. Neal looked up quickly, almost apprehensively. "It's okay," Peter said quickly as he saw Neal's mouth open to protest or defend. "It's okay, Neal. I just mean that I didn't get the chance to say goodbye that time."

"I'm sorry, Peter," Neal said quietly. Peter could feel the distance growing between them even though neither of them had even shifted in their chairs. "You know why. We've been over that." It was the first time either of them had mentioned the conversation from over a year ago.

"I know we've been over that," Peter kept his voice gentle, trying to stop Neal from withdrawing further, "I just have a couple things I….I wanted to say to you." He smiled through the awkwardness, "Last time, you got the last word. You know how much I hate that."

It worked; Peter saw Neal's shoulders drop, and his face soften.

"Yeah, I do." A small smile played on his lips.

Peter didn't have much time so he dove right in. "I am not the only person who saw…sees….good in you, Neal." Peter began. "A lot of people cared about you, would still care about you given the opportunity. People did, and I will bet still do, see good in you. There is a lot of good to see. I mean that. You have to know that." Peter didn't let the sudden shine of tears in Neal's eyes distract him from his mission. After all, he had given it a lot of thought. "You are a good man, and I am honored that you thought of me as your best friend, but I want you to know that I am more than proud to call you mine."

Peter had felt his own eyes tearing up as he spoke, and he had dropped his gaze to the twisted napkin on the table. He waited for Neal to fight past his own tears to respond.

"Why do you say _thought_?" Peter looked up at the surprisingly playful tone of Neal's voice. "You are _still_ my best friend, Peter, and always will be." The emotional tears had disappeared; a glint of mischief now played in the blue eyes. "And believe me, when you are kidnapped by drug lords and held in a foreign country, I am a very good friend to have."

Peter had said what he had needed to say, and Neal had rescued him again, this time from the awkwardness of the moment. Neal reached down and picked up his carry-on and stood. No more stalling.

"It's ten hours to Paris, Neal, in seven you could be sitting at my kitchen table having dinner."

"I can't go to New York, Peter." Even though Neal protested good-naturedly, Peter could see the mischief in his eyes had changed to longing. He couldn't go, but he wanted to.

"Just for a few days," Peter pressed. Having said his goodbye now, he didn't want it to be goodbye. He needed more time. "No one will know you are there. I'll buy you a disguise and everything. Stay at the house. You could see El," he paused, "and our Neal."

"I've seen pictures of him," Neal said softly, "He is really cute, Peter. I am so happy for you and Elizabeth." He paused, "He is a lucky kid."

It didn't surprise him that Neal had kept up with them even after his firm speech about cutting all ties. Peter had known when Neal said it that he was putting on a tough face. A toughness he didn't feel at the time and obviously didn't feel now. "Do you have a photo?" Peter began, "If you don't, I could get you one…" he stopped at the sudden shake of Neal's head.

"No, I don't keep pictures anymore. I don't keep anything that reminds me of people that I…." He stopped, swallowing hard.

People that he what, Peter wondered, left behind? Lost? "Come back with me Neal, please."

"I can't, Peter if I go back to New York," he paused, anguish now in his blue eyes, "I don't think I could ever leave again. It was too hard the first time."

"Would that be so bad?" Peter searched Neal's face, "To just come back and stay?" Peter could almost see the wheels turning in Neal's brain as he tried to comprehend how that move would translate into reality.

"Neal Caffrey is dead, and Nathan Clay can't have a life in New York."

Neal had once told Peter that he was the only person who could change his mind, and his eyes told him it was still true. There was a time he would have pressed that advantage; pressured Neal to give in. But he wasn't going to do that. Neal was torn; he wanted to come home with Peter, but he was also afraid of what might happen if he did. If Neal ever decided to come back to New York, to sit at his kitchen table, Peter wanted it to be because he had chosen to. Neal had lived too much of his life doing the bidding of others. From now own, his choices would be his own. He had given up his life for that freedom and Peter wouldn't infringe upon it. No matter how much he wanted to at this precise moment.

"Well, Nathan Clay might can't have a life in Paris either," Peter ventured. "If the Venezuelan government decides to track down the owner of that art, they could cause you some problems. Or worse yet, if Cordero's people ever piece together what really went down, they will come after you."

Neal scoffed at that, "I think I'm good. I got word to his people about how disappointed I was at their serious lack of security." He smiled, "After all, I lost a considerable amount of revenue when my art was seized. I think I covered pretty good."

"How good could you possibly have covered yourself when you used your real name?"

"All a part of the plan, Peter," he smiled, "That just makes my story more believable. After all, what kind of idiot would pull a stunt like that using his own name?"

Peter couldn't help but smile at that answer. He rose to his feet and Neal looked almost apprehensive as Peter stepped out to face him. this was the moment they had both been dreading. Neal held out his hand a plastered a smile on his face; Peter took the offered hand and shook it. It reminded him of another time Neal had extended his hand to him. That had been the beginning, was this the end?

"Thanks for coming for me, Neal," Peter could feel himself choking up in spite of his best efforts. "It was really good to see you."

"It was really good to see you, too," Neal's smile didn't fool Peter or hide the saddness in the blue eyes."Take care of yourself and take care of your family."

Peter fought the urge to ask Neal yet again to come back to New York, but he didn't fight the urge to pull him into a tight hug. "You are my family, too, Neal," he said firmly, "and if you ever want to come home, you will be more than welcome."

"Thanks Peter," Neal's voice was strained, "that means more than you know."

Peter released his grip and the two again stood face to face. "It's true," Peter replied, "Promise me you will remember it."

"I will," Neal replied, then paused, "Au revoir Peter."

"No, not goodbye," Peter corrected. "Hasta la vista, Neal."

Neal returned his smile. "That works for me."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

"Elizabeth," Peter began, "How did you find Neal?" He had been back in New York for two days, had shaved and was feeling almost back to normal. The debrief at the FBI building with the State Department had been draining, and more so since he was keeping a big part of what he knew to himself. After the initial homecoming, he and Elizabeth hadn't really had a big opportunity to talk. His appearance, even though he had insisted on some basic clean up before he ever saw her, had caused her great alarm. She was insistent that he would be back to his target weight sooner than later.

To that end, she was chopping peppers for whatever dish the evening's menu called for. At his question, she glanced at little Neal, busily coloring in his high chair and looked back at Peter innocently. He was not fooled. He smiled. "I mean the other one."

She raised her eyebrows. "You made me promise not to, remember?"

He took the knife from her hand and turned her gently to face him, "I know you did it, Elizabeth. I know you told Neal that Cordero had me."

Her attempt at innocence moments before evaporated. "I'm sorry Peter," she whispered, "I had to try, I was desperate, and no one was doing anything to get you back."

"How did you find him?" Neal hadn't told him it had been Elizabeth, but Peter had known that it had to be. It could have been no one else.

"Diana got me in touch with Mozzie," she explained, "She understood that I needed help and after all, second to Neal, Mozzie would be a good go to person."

"So Mozzie led you to Neal?" That sounded strange, but then again, Mozzie had always had a soft spot for Elizabeth, or Mrs. Suit as he called her. And Peter guessed a tearful, desperate Elizabeth had been more than Mozzie could refuse.

"I'm sorry, Peter," she said again, "I know you told me about Neal under the strict rule that I never contact him, but…." Her eyes again showed her desperation. Part of the torture of being held prisoner had been knowing how Elizabeth would be suffering.

It's okay," he said taking her into his arms. "I understand." He paused before continuing, "That promise, I made it to myself, too. After everything, he deserved a new life and to do that he had to leave the old one behind."

She pulled away from him, and the look of her face had changed. The lines of her mouth were hard, and there was anger in her eyes.

"He's done that," she spat, "I told him you were in trouble. I went all the way to Paris, and he wouldn't help; he wouldn't even try." He kept his silence, and she continued, bitterness clear in her voice "He said Neal Caffrey was dead and since he was out of the con man game, there was nothing he could do."

"Elizabeth," Peter couldn't help the smile that had started to creep across his face. "Nathan Clay is a pretty good con man himself apparently."

"What are you talking about?" She looked at him.

"He conned you, El," he said gently. "How do you think the Venezuelan authorities got intel that Cordero was holding stolen relics?"

Understanding dawned in her eyes, "You think it was Neal?"

"Who else could assemble a collection of stolen art and get Cordero to put it in storage in the same hallway where he was holding me? Cordero isn't even an art person, El; Neal conned him, set him up and then called in the Venezuelan authorities to get me out of there."

"But he said…." She began, then looked at Peter sharply, "Are you sure it was Neal?

"Actually, no. It was a French art dealer named Nathan Clay," he smiled. "I had a nice conversation with him. Strangely enough, we were both on the same flight out of Caracas."

"You saw him? He was _there_?" Her disbelief evaporated at Peter's look. She pulled out a chair and sat down at the table, dinner now forgotten. "Okay, Peter, tell me everything."

wcwcwcwcwcwcwcwcwcwcw

Little Neal was having his afternoon nap, and he and Elizabeth were having a cup of coffee. The topic of Neal/Nathan had been the conversation ever since Peter had shared the truth with Elizabeth the evening before. She had been surprised, and then not surprised as he explained the lengths Neal had gone to make sure he came back to her.

"You know, I've went over what I said to him in Paris a hundred times while you were gone. I kept wondering what I could have done or said, to have gotten through to him, gotten him to help."

"He did help, Elizabeth," Peter reminded her, "You did get through to him, he just let you think you didn't."

"He was worried about you, Peter, I knew he was. He went pale when he saw me, but he went more pale when he realized you were in trouble." She recalled, "His mind was spinning, you know how he looks when he is confronted by something he didn't expect, and he's trying to figure his way around it?" Peter nodded. He had seen that many times himself. "But then, it was like something changed."

"Probably when a plan clicked into place and he decided to con you into thinking he wasn't going to help," Peter suggested.

"No," she shook her head, "there was a point when he asked me what I thought he could do that the United States Government couldn't," she paused, "and I said something like, they have to do things the legal way and …. And you don't." She looked down, embarrassed by the memory.

"El," Peter began. It had been a reoccurring theme when Neal had been a part of their lives. More than once, both he and Elizabeth had depended upon Neal's lack of adherence to the rules to accomplish things that would otherwise have proven much more difficult. Peter hadn't been proud of that once he realized how very hypercritical it was. And Elizabeth now felt the same.

"The way he looked at me when I said that, Peter, it was almost as if I had hit him or something." She said quietly. "Then he said he couldn't help, that he wasn't that person anymore and I was so angry with him, Peter, " She stopped, adding quietly "I told him he was dead to me. I slapped him and stormed out."

"Neal understands, Elizabeth," Peter assured her. "He understood then. He said all that to make you angry enough to leave Paris. If you had known he was going to help me, you would have wanted to know details, know the plan." He squeezed her, grateful to be home. "He just wanted to keep you safe; safe from knowing what was going on."

"Plausible deniability?" She smiled. "That sounds like something Mozzie would say. I guess he was in it, too, wasn't he?"

"I am sure he was," Peter admitted. "Neal didn't say, but then again he didn't tell me you were the one who wound him up and sent him to South America, either."

She took a sip of her coffee. The smile had faded, and she looked at Peter thoughtfully.

"When I thought back to the way he looked when I said that," she said softly, "I understood for the first time why he needed a clean break; why you said we should never go look for him."

"Why?"

"Because as much as we berated him for being who he was, for not following the rules, when push came to shove that was who we asked him to be. Time and time again. It was really very unfair, Peter."

"I know." Peter had come to the same realization during his year of soul searching when he thought Neal was dead. He was afraid he had unknowingly put Neal in a no-win situation from the beginning, and that in the end, Neal's desperation to escape that situation had cost him his life. And it had, just not in the way Peter had initially thought.

"And as much as I thought about him, wondered how he was, I didn't get on a plane and fly to Paris until I needed something from him. I needed him to be Neal Caffrey again, and when he refused, I accused him of not caring, of not being your friend. But what kind of friend did that make me?"

It hurt Peter to hear self-recrimination in her voice, but he understood it. He had been over the same ground himself the past days. Neal had risked everything to go to Venezuela to save him, and yet he had been afraid of what Peter would think of his methods. They had given him so many mixed messages over the years. Still, when Elizabeth showed up at the café in Paris and told Neal that Peter was in trouble, he hadn't given it a second thought. Less than seventy-two hours after talking to Elizabeth, Nathan Clay arrived in Venezuela. He hadn't even taken the time to create an alias to safeguard the life he had spent two years building. Without regard to what impact his course of action might have to his life, he had rushed to Peter's rescue.

"I got to tell him a lot of what I have wanted to tell him a long time, El" Peter said, reaching over and squeezing her hand, "I told him he is a good man, and that all of us know that, and that we care for him. I told him that I am proud to call him my friend."

"Did you ask him to come back?" Peter looked at her in surprise; she smiled. She knew him too well. "I know you want him too, Peter, I just wondered if you told _him_ that."

"Actually, I did," he admitted, "and if I had pressed him I think he would have come."

"Really? And you didn't?" She studied him, "Why not?"

"It wasn't right to press him, El," Peter continued, "It was hard for him, for both of us, having to say goodbye." He shook his head, "It wouldn't have been fair of me. If he comes back I want it to be because he makes that decision for himself, not for me. "

"So," she said, "You said what you needed to say and you can leave it at that?"

"Yes," Watching Neal walk away in Bogota had been difficult but somehow, even then, Peter knew that it wasn't going to be forever. Neal wanted to come back to New York but it was going to take time for him to work that out for himself.

"Well, I can't. I've got some things to tell him too," She said firmly. "I am going to. I am going back over there and I am going to thank him for bringing you back to me. And I am going to apologize for ever asking him to be anyone other than who he is."

"Exactly who are you saying all of that too? Neal Caffrey or Nathan Clay?" Peter asked, amused by the dilemma.

"Which ever one of them that will forgive me."


	12. Chapter 12

_Its early, I know. but Ahhh...saying The End is always the hardest..._

 **Chapter Twelve**

It had been two weeks since he had returned to Paris, and Nathan Clay hadn't heard a peek from Cordero or anyone else from Venezuela. He had hoped his misdirection of the tip to the Venezuelan authorities, followed up with his irate outburst at Cordero's men about their lack of security that cost him his merchandise, had adequately removed him from suspicion. Mozzie wasn't convinced; he was already working on a new identity in case Nathan Clay had to meet the same fate as Neal Caffrey.

Elodie, his assistant, entered his office just after he had returned from lunch. "Monsieur Clay, you have a visitor."

Nathan looked up questioningly from the portfolio he had been reviewing. "Did I forget an appointment?"

"I didn't make one last time," Elizabeth Burke's face appeared at the door of the office. "But perhaps I should have. It wasn't fair of me to ambush you like that."

He still remembered the rush of emotions that had swept over him when she had called his name. He had been both confused and thrilled at the same instant, and then he had felt genuine fear when he learned why she had come. It was almost a month since she had stood in his flat, angrily told him that he was dead to her, slapped his face and stormed away.

His expression must have betrayed his emotions because he suddenly noticed that Elodie was looking at him in curiosity, and Elizabeth was staring at him almost apprehensively.

He let his best defense, his smile, cover his feelings and his face as he rose to greet her. "Elizabeth, please come in. Elodie, would you be so kind as to bring us a bottle of Coche-Dury Les Perrieres?"

Elodie's perfectly shaped eyebrows raised in surprise, but she recovered quickly. "Certainement monsieur," She answered quietly and exited, casting a dubious look at Elizabeth as she closed the door. Only someone very special would instigate the opening of the Coche-Dury.

"It's only two thirty," Elizabeth said as she approached his desk, "A bit early for a bottle of wine, isn't it?" Her tone suggested that she thought her arrival, yet another ambush, had driven him to drink. He tried to allay her fears, keeping his voice light and his smile in place.

"It's Paris, Elizabeth; it is never too early for wine." He stepped out from behind the desk but suddenly found he didn't know what he was supposed to do. He guessed she had learned his role in Peter's release and had come to thank him, yet she looked nervous, uncertain. He imagined she was regretting the hand print she had left on his face at their last meeting. The thought that Elizabeth was uncomfortable in his presence took away his own unease with the situation. He reached out and took her hand in his. "It's good to see you, Elizabeth."

Elodie reentered the room, wine bucket in hand. She crossed the room without as much as a glance at Nathan and Elizabeth, holding hands near the front of his desk, and placed her delivery on the café table that was situated near the large window. She then retrieved two glasses from the credenza. She faced Nathan and asked with painful politeness. "Shall I pour, Monsieur Clay?"

"Oui, s'il vous plaît." He lead Elizabeth to the table, pulled out a chair for her before taking his own. "Elodie, this is Elizabeth Burke, the wife of a very good friend of mine." He smiled mischievously at his assistant, noting that the tense lines about her very red lips relaxed at that revelation. Even though they were supposed to be no emotional entanglements between them, he knew she was prone to some jealous at times. "Elizabeth, this is my Assistant Elodie Angevine."

"Very pleased to meet you, Madame Burke," she poured Elizabeth's glass first, and then Nathan's as she launched into a description of the wine before Elizabeth could respond with similar pleasantries. "Coche-Dury Les Perrieres was rated by wine critics as the best from Meursault." She informed as she poured, "This particular vintage was given a score of 95 by the Wine Advocate." She looked at Nathan in amusement. "The average price per bottle, in US currency, is $1500."

Elizabeth had taken a sip of her wine and now nearly choked, looking at Neal in disbelief. "Fifteen hundred _dollars_?"

Nathan gave Elodie a scathing look, knowing her comment was to repay him for allowing her to fret over Elizabeth a minute longer than was absolutely necessary. "That will do, Elodie," he said, "Please leave us and hold all calls."

With an air of meekness that he knew was completely insincere, she mumbled an apology and left them alone.

Elizabeth had regained her composure and now took another sip of the wine, obviously swishing it around in her mouth in an attempt to see if she could tell the difference in a $250 bottle of wine, which she had had the occasion to drink, and a $1500 bottle for which this was her first.

"It was a gift," Nathan explained, taking a sip of his own, "from a grateful client. I've just been saving it for a special occasion."

"I'm honored," she replied. "Speaking of gifts," she reached down to her bag that she had placed on the floor by her seat. "Peter sent you something."

She produced a small box and handed it to him. Inside it he found a replica of a statue of a Pre-Columbian Warrior about four inches in height. Made of a clay polymer, it was something vendors sold in the streets to tourists. There was a note, in a handwriting he knew well. He had even had occasion to mimic that fine scrawl as Neal Caffrey.

 _I know that you don't keep mementos from your previous life, but maybe you can keep some from your current one? After all, Nathan Clay is the one who went to Venezuela and saved my life._

Near the bottom, printed in small letters he read. _If this message does not self-destruct in five seconds, just run it through the paper shredder._

He turned the small figure over in his hands and looked up to find Elizabeth studying him closely.

"I'm sorry-" she paused, "Nathan." The sound of his name on her lips seemed strange, much as it had in the beginning when Mozzie used it. "I had no right to show up here and make demands on you like I did, and to…to say the thing I said."

"Elizabeth," he began, "Really, I understand why you came and I am glad you did. I am just glad I could help."

"It wasn't fair of me," she further explained, "There were only two rules when Peter told me that you were alive; first, I couldn't tell anyone and second, I couldn't try to contact you." She paused, "I was just….so scared for him."

"Elizabeth," he paused trying to find the right words, "I understand; and no one knows better than me what it's like to be willing to do whatever necessary to keep the people you love safe." He felt regret at the look on her face and tried to lighten the mood. He again put on his best smile. "And you certainly can't think I, of all people, would hold some rule breaking against anyone."

"Thank you," she reached over and squeezed his hand, her eyes demanding that he feel her sincerity. "Thank you for saving him and making sure he came home to little Neal and Me."

"No need to thank me, Elizabeth," he answered truthfully, "That's what friends do."

"Peter told me what you did," Now there was a look of concern on her face, "and he's worried that there might be some problems for you."

"You know Peter, he worries too much."

"Well," she smiled, "That's what friends do, too, they worry."

"No need to worry about me," he assured her, "Everything went according to plan, and I am fine."

"Really?" she looked around his office with interest. "Are you happy here? Is this the life you wanted?"

The question caught him off guard. Had she noticed how impersonal his space was? Had she noticed that his apartment was much the same? His life, although pleasant at times, was remarkably empty, and he had purposely designed it that way. But after returning from Venezuela, after seeing Peter, it seemed both empty and, well, boring.

"Not the life I wanted, particularly, but it is the life I can live with." He answered, taking a larger drink of his wine than he had intended. He sat the glass down and, looking up, knew immediately that he had betrayed himself by the almost pitying look in Elizabeth's eyes. This would not do; he needed a distraction. He rose from his chair suddenly, leaving Elizabeth surprised. He went to his desk and buzzed Elodie.

"Yes, Monsieur Clay?" her smooth voice came across the line.

"Ring up Mr. Haversham, will you?" Neal smiled at Elizabeth, "Tell him to come directly to my office and have a glass of Coche-Dury Les Perrieres with Elizabeth Burke."

"Shall I tell him it is $1,500 a bottle?" There was an amused, playful tone in her voice.

"No need," Neal replied, "He'll know."

Wcwcwcwwcwcwcwcwcwc

Mozzie arrival made the visit a much more comfortable one; at least for Neal. He had been thrilled to see Elizabeth, and she had equally been thrilled to see him. The reunion caused an ache in Neal's heart, again reminding him of how empty his new life was. But this was a safe life, for the most part. Safe for him and safe for those he cared about. Empty was a small price to pay, wasn't it? But boring? Well, he wasn't so sure he could live with empty _and_ boring.

As their visit drew to an end, Neal invited Elodie to share a glass with them. It seemed unfair to exclude her from a taste of the famous wine they were all enjoying, and he was sure she was glad to be included. Also, he wanted Elizabeth to stop with the pitying look she kept sending in his direction. He had people in his life, after all. He felt sure Elodie realized that he was in some way using her; they had a strict work relationship, and he broke his own rules with a couple

affectionate gestures. She didn't seem to mind and played along nicely. However he knew she would have questions, and he was even more certain of it when Elizabeth said her goodbyes. She had been careful to call him Nathan, but when she hugged him the final time, she slipped up.

"Thank you, Neal-Nathan," she corrected herself, looking apologetic, "Please know that any time you ever want to come to New York" she paused, stressing her next words "anytime you want to come _home_ , you will always, always be welcome."

"Thank you, Elizabeth." He said softly, "Please tell Peter thanks for the gift, and…" he stopped, feeling his throat tighten, "and you know where I am if you need me."

"And you know where we are." Her eyes were full of tears. She hugged him quickly, then made her exit before the real waterworks could begin which Neal appreciated more than she realized.

Funny, her slapping him and storming out had been less painful a departure. Mozzie, with an understanding look of sympathy in his direction, made his exit with her, leaving him and Elodie alone in the office.

He didn't trust his voice, and he didn't look at her, but picked up the small Colombian carving from the café table and returned to his desk. He took his seat and after a moment, placed it on the corner of his desk, next to his phone.

He looked up at Elodie, the curious look on her face changing to one of surprise at his placement of the small statue in a place of honor on his desk. His desk was always clear. No decorations. No photographs. Basically empty.

"Comme c'est terrible!" Elodie exclaimed. "You are not keeping this?" she asked in disbelief. He had to admit it didn't fit in at all with the other objets d'art that graced his office. Beautiful, they had great value but little meaning. He valued the little clay polymer statue more than any of them.

"Yes," Nathan agreed, "It's rather horrible, isn't it? But it was sent by a very good friend."

"Monsieur Burke, I imagine?" She replied softly picking up the statue and looking at it thoughtfully before replacing it. She met Nathan's eyes. "Very odd friends, you have Nathan, but Monsieur Burke, he must be a very good friend indeed."

"Yes," Nathan said quietly, "he is. He's my best friend."

 _ **The End of this Story...**_

 _Okay, folks, don't hate me for leaving Neal in Paris. I debated, after reading all the reviews, of just bringing him back. But that is not how I wrote the story. This story was all about Neal and when he comes back to New York it will be on_ ** _his_** _terms. That story will take place in the sequel,_ ** _Bonjour Encore._** _Thanks for reading and allowing me to reward my favorite character with some fun :) Jusqu'au plus tard._


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